Poetry

Thoughts I had while eating chocolate spread from the jar

Scraping the bottom of the barrel,

those threads and fibres of ideas.

They’re no good, they say.

So I counter; I’m not scraping, I’m shaping,

crafting not a barrel but a watertight embrace

that I can shelter in as society’s laughter stampedes.

 

In my cave of solitude, while I wait for quiet,

those threads have been plaited into prose.

 

Like Tolkien, like Rowling – it’s all just the same.

 

No, it’s all just me. They may only see words,

but their children will see worlds.

Poetry

Next, please.

Crafting, a menu that extends to the farthest craters of the moon. Drawers inside of boxes, containing tiny keys – silver, brass, gold. Locks in high places, just out of reach, tucked behind ears for later thinking. A pot of molten language, sifting, bubbling, evolving. Curses turn to common tongue, tongues that cease to pause and hear. Words tiptoe away down to the shadows.